“Unless you can produce press credentials or an invitation, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
“I can’t leave. I came with the prince. I’m Corina Del Rey.” One of those names had to pull some weight with this kid.
“The prince is seated with his party in the royal box. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call security.”
“I’m his party.” She fumed at him and jerked her arm from his grasp. “Okay, I’ll go, but if you’ll just talk to the prince, he’ll tell you—”
He laughed. “I am not to disturb the prince for every crazy who claims she’s with him.”
“Look,” Corina said, pointing to her head, “I have a tiara.”
Then he appeared. “Corina.” Stephen leaned over the ornate, carved banister. “This way.”
“What took you so long?” Corina freed herself from the usher and started up the stairs.
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness. I didn’t know.”
“I tried to tell you,” Corina said over her shoulder and down the banister.
But the usher was gone, ducking through a set of double doors.
“I thought you were right behind me,” Stephen said.
“I got shut out. Again. Can you please talk to Thomas?”
“When I arrived at the royal box, I had to stand for a reception line. He was watching the entrance.”
“Never mind. We’re here now.”
When they were ensconced in their seats, she faced the screen, feeling ridiculous. Perhaps it was time to reckon with the raw truth. He wasn’t going to change. He wasn’t going to sweep her off her feet again, declaring his love. He didn’t want their marriage restored. He wanted to move on. Without her.
She was never going to truly be the wife of Prince Stephen.
EIGHTEEN
He lost sight of her during the movie’s after party. She was cool toward him when he caught up to her after the showing. But rightfully so. He’d left her behind, and for the life of him, he couldn’t reckon with his rude actions.
After all, he did invite her to the premier. But suddenly she felt all too close, too real, and the memories of her soft skin beneath his and the flame of her kisses nearly distracted him from the opening scene where King Stephen I and his men rose from the southern bay like sea monsters, surprising King Henry VIII’s army as they slept on the beach.
As the film credits rolled and the audience rose to their feet with abandoned applause, the theatre spotlight swung to his box and Corina stepped into the shadows.
He walked with her to the after party, but he was swarmed as they entered the room, and she was gone.
Stephen perused the food table, choosing a smoked salmon on toast point hors d’oeuvre.
Impulse.That was his superpower. What he did well. When he hesitated or overthought something, people got hurt. Joy became sorrow. Peace became war. Friends became enemies.
So tonight, when Corina suddenly appeared to be the perfect wife for him—comfortable in his world, acquainted with the likes of Laura Gonda and Martina Lord, and charming the “wow” out of Clive the cad—he panicked. Moved away from her because his impulses stirred.
Marry me. Again.
So Stephen created distance between them. He didn’t blame her for being upset. Finishing his hors d’oeuvre, Stephen moved through the crowd, greeting guests, who prattled on about how “it was such a fabulous film.”
But he was ready to go. This wasn’t his scene. Despite his rugged, rugby-man reputation, any and all exploits with wine, women, and song were merely unchallenged legend.
Why disappoint people with the truth? The Prince of Brighton was a homebody. A wounded, unworthy man.
He’d tried numbing his pain with drink after his tour but quickly discovered he had to choose. Be drunk or be disciplined.
